


Captive

by Steangine



Series: Crimson Red (Bottom Dante) [6]
Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Bottom Dante (Devil May Cry), Incest, M/M, Mind Control, Not as horny as planned, PWP, Sibling Incest, Twincest, What if?, introspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:27:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23823058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Steangine/pseuds/Steangine
Summary: Captive:1. one who has been captured2. one captivated, dominated, or controlled3. held under control of another but having the appearance of independence
Relationships: Dante/Nelo Angelo
Series: Crimson Red (Bottom Dante) [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1620022
Comments: 4
Kudos: 51





	Captive

**Author's Note:**

> This is less horny than expected

Dante is strong. He doesn’t brag about it with his flamboyant attitude only because he thinks high of himself: he is capable of pulverizing any demon that Hell could spit on the human world, and in the past he has already saved humanity’s ass once, defeating a clown-priest who strayed from God’s path and his twin brother.

He shouldn’t be so surprised that Mundus’ army could have some surprises for him; but Dante, while choking in the firm clench of his opponent, indulged in the shock that someone who could stand his same ground existed, and he wasn’t the demon emperor. Fighting back is useless, his strength already drained by the battle –ah, that Nelo Angelo is a worthy opponent, Dante enjoyed clashing swords for the first time in ages– and his view going blurry due to the lack of oxygen. The irony is that he sexually enjoys asphyxiation and he is going to die because of it.

But Dante doesn’t die. It seems like something has distracted his opponent enough for him to breathe again, and whatever it may be, Dante is grateful for it. One second later, Nelo’s sword pierces through his guts. That hurt, but Dante can endure it now that he breathes again. He was stabbed by his own sword, lovely courtesy of his dear brother, and not more than thirty minutes ago he freed himself from a sword which gently pinned him to the ground making the hilt pass through his body as well. Nothing unusual in the everyday life of Dante, he could endure a blade in his stomach better than a strong hand choking him – a little part of him, even in that dangerous circumstances, still relates the gesture with arousal.

“It’s getting boring.” Dante chuckles out few drops of blood. “Sword stabbing is old story now. Don’t you have any more tricks up your armor?”

Actually, Dante is curious. Nelo Angelo had the chance to attack him from behind but didn’t; instead, he pulled a little trick –for a second, Dante couldn’t breathe because he believed his brother was coming out of the mirror like a twisted Alice from Wasteland– and then invited to join him to a more comfortable battleground. The way he fought showed he was confident in his strength and didn’t have the need to resort to the usual tricks Dante saw too many times in his endless battles against demons. Dante is curious to know why such a creature has decided to serve Mundus as his master, because any reason he has thought of makes no sense to him.

Of course, it’s not like he is going to let Nelo Angelo do as he pleases only because he is pinned to a wall. Yet, it seems like the battle has consumed him more than he expected, because Dante can’t stop the hand who slams him back against the stones.

Then Nelo satisfies him and pulls another trick. This one isn’t on pair to his entrance on stage, but having some blue swords of energy floating around him brings back some bad memories, and that is more than enough to freeze Dante for an instant. In that instant, the swords pierce his hands to the wall, one penetrates his stomach.

The sensation of the energy fizzling inside his bowels is somehow familiar, and Dante laughs. His voice breaks in coughs; one hand is still choking him and he hardly feels any air entering his lungs, but he still chuckles without being amused in the slightest.

“What’s this, the freaks replica show?” He looks at Nelo into the empty eyes. “First a shitty copy of my mother…” The edges of Nelo’s face are getting blurrier, and Dante can’t distinguish where it ends and where the neck begins anymore. “…then a knight who pretends to be…” The words die into his throat. “…Ver…”

Dante isn’t sure why the face of his brother, with the same expression he had when he refused to catch his hand, flashes before him, covering Nelo’s red eyes. Then, his view goes black.

***

It has been some time that Dante woke up and remained with his eyes fixed on the canopy. The bed looks as old as the whole castle, but it is comfortable and the blankets and duvet are painted of a scarlet red, so intense that it almost seems like they have been soaked into human blood. But his consciousness doesn’t process anymore such thoughts, those are just tiny pieces of memories from when he first stepped into that same room.

Back then, Nelo Angelo made his entrance from the mirror, but now he enters the room from the door. Dante would think that it is a pity, because that trick is a nice one and it has become Nelo’s signature, but his mind is floating in an empty void, trying to make reason of the numb sensations he is feeling through his naked body: the tender silk under him, the harsh cold air above.

The warm hand on his cheek leans as gently as much a mindless warrior is capable of, but the sudden strong warmth feels like a punch, and Dante turns his head to Nelo. He is cold and distant, hidden, into his strong armor, but one of his hands is free from the gauntlet. A strong life is pulsating from under the snow-white skin and flowing inside Dante, awakening his senses from the slumber. His mind is still floating, but his body is reconnecting.

Dante tends his arms and he remembers how many times he used to do that with his mother, asking for a sweet embrace, and with his brother, wanting a protective hug. Nelo glances at him, tilts his head a little; he is confused, and where his mask doesn’t show it, his gestures do. Dante chuckles and puts both hands on the edges of his helm. His fingers trace the fake features, smooth like porcelain and cold like a lifeless mask; and yet, Dante feels a fain trace of life beating from the inside.

Nelo Angelo allows him to take his mask off. He is beautiful, Dante’s mind still manages to elaborate that thought. Pure white skin tainted by blue lines, like veins carrying a blue infected blood. Dante touches the lines departing from under his eyes and traces them to the chin. Nelo observes his slow movements with a mild hint of interest, he doesn’t understand why Dante looks in bliss only by touching him.

But the moment the fingers touches his throat, Nelo snaps away from that delicate moment and he pins Dante’s wrists on the bed. His teeth grit, he snaps his jaws once like a wild animal and bites Dante’s neck to rip a loud cry out of him. Dante’s broken voice awakens an instinct which has been lying asleep inside him for so long, yet he has forgotten about it until this moment.

The taste of blood lingers on his tongue, and Nelo takes a moment to smack his lips and let the iron flavor descend his throat. He doesn’t know if he likes it, but the sign of his teeth on Dante’s neck has disappeared already, leaving a faint red trace. Nelo licks the few drops away, but the taste isn’t as intense as before, and he loses his interest in it. What now has caught his attention is the way Dante’s chest is moving, up and down, following the broken rhythm of his unsteady breath. Is that pain? Or something else that makes his watery eyes shine?

Nelo doesn’t know what to do. His mind isn’t formulating any thought telling him how to handle that situation, because no input Mundus has given him contemplates having your enemy and prey naked and defenseless under him. What Nelo does is following Dante’s reactions. He screamed when he bit his neck and went lifeless, but now that Nelo is just licking and sucking away the blood from his skin, his body doesn’t stop responding: Dante trembles and some low hiccups mingle with his breath. The more Nelo gets away from his neck and goes down, the stronger Dante reacts to him. The moment he bites his nipple, Dante’s voice gets louder; his moan is unexpected, and Nelo feels it crawling under his armor and reaching his insides.

For a moment, he stops. It has been so long since the last time he has felt something coming from inside him, that he doesn’t know what to do – but he shouldn’t remember anything, because he is an empty shell created by his master, isn’t he? Nelo raises his eyes and realizes that it is the first time he sees Dante’s face painted in a faint blush, and he wonders that if he goes further, maybe that red will become as intense as blood. Oh, it would suit him even more than that pinkish shadow.

Dante maybe is ticklish. Nelo has forgotten what ticklish mean, but he doesn’t miss the way Dante’s entire body twitches and how he tries to get away the moment he licks his navel. Dante grabs his head, and Nelo is ready to fight his attempt of pushing him away. Yet, instead of stopping him, Dante reveals all his greed and spreads his legs for Nelo to eat him out.

There are the thighs and the legs left, but Nelo feels in the hurry of Dante’s desperate pushes that he has reached what he is looking for (what is he looking for, actually? He doesn’t know). He couldn’t feel through his armor how hard Dante has become, so it is a surprise when he touches that piece of flesh and it is solid hard, different from the limp limb which seemed so out of place when he saw it hanging between Dante’s legs.

Nelo uses his mouth, because Dante shivers when he rubs his fingers on him, but twitches when it’s with the tongue that Nelo explores his body, and his mouth melts in delicious syllables with no meaning. The moment he licks all the length of his cock, Dante’s voice breaks in a cry which isn’t in the slightest close to when he bit his neck; it vibrates of an emotion which should be foreign to Nelo, but somehow it feels familiar how only the voice can reach him inside and touching him like no hand or weapon has ever done.

If he just licks him, Dante holds onto the silky blankets, opening and closing his hands as his breath intensifies. If he sucks the skin, his strong thighs clamp on his head, and Dante bites his lips to contain his voice. What if he does more? What if he takes Dante’s dick into his mouth and sucks it? It looks like that part is made to be tasted and teased, touched and sucked to enjoy the bitter taste dripping on the tongue.

Nelo does it. He gulps down Dante’s dick, and his loud scream is the most delicious of those he forced him to make. The weak body collapses immediately under the stimulus, and Dante comes with an exhausted moan. His semen squirts down Nelo’s throat, and he drinks it all until the last drop, sucking Dante’s dick limp.

Nelo has never let anything into his mouth. He doesn’t need food like other demons, nor water like humans, because it is Mundus’ energy which gives him life. Yet, that gesture comes natural, and he almost believes that he has already done something like that. If he was given enough time, he would probably make a first step towards putting all the pieces together; but Nelo looks at how Dante is looking at him, and he is curious to know what his eyes are hiding.

Dante kneels in front of him. Nelo has never let anyone get close to him enough to freely touch him, neither the woman demon which his master crafted specifically to lure Dante to Mallet Island and which makes Nelo’s chest throb in rage whenever he puts his eyes on her. Now, he allows Dante’s fingers brushing on his cheek and tracing the shape of his jaw. Dante cups his face with both hands: his eyes are dreamy, as if he isn’t fully aware of the tangible reality around him, but somehow Nelo feels like he is not just looking at him. Dante is seeing him.

That’s why Nelo doesn’t react at his hands sliding along his neck. He misses the warm contact as Dante touches the shoulders of his armor and traces the length of his arm until he reaches where the metal ends and his flesh begins. An unfamiliar click echoes in the room, and the vambrace falls lifeless on the soft bed. Nelo looks with fascination at his pale skin and wonders why his arm, under the skin given him by his lord Mundus, is so similar to Dante’s.

Dante brushes the tips of his fingers on the strong muscles. It is like fire. Nelo retreats his arm and holds tight with the cold hand still protected by the gauntlet the spot burning with Dante’s warmth. Having nothing to protect his weak core is almost scary, so Nelo doesn’t know where that self-destructive desire of being completely exposed comes from. The touch with Dante burns, and he wants to burn more.

First the arms, then the shoulders and the chest. Dante Tore off each piece which stuck for so long on Nelo, that it became what he perceived as his real body; with that fake skin, he wasn’t able to feel the pain or the world around him, and he couldn’t be affected by anything but the power of Mundus which relieved him from such mundane and human silliness like the lukewarm caress of the sun or the sweet smell of grass.

It’s like someone is painting a scattered dream in his mind, where the sun shines in the blue sky, there is a house surrounded by emerald nature and Dante is in front of him, into his arms. He looks sleepy, yet he raises his head to look at him and kisses his dry lips. Nelo doesn’t know what to do and he just enjoys that tender contact.

Mundus taught him to never show his back, even to the loyal servants of his master, because they weren’t allies, they just happened to worship the same god. A fickle capricious god whose benevolence is commensurate with their abilities in please him and fulfill his tasks. Their lives are a constant struggle to show Mundus how they could be useful to him, and they are a bunch of ants walking on a thin thread: a single misstep and their lives are gone.

And yet, despite it was carved into his brain that only the strongest survives and showing any sign of weakness meant death, Nelo doesn’t fight Dante when he pushes him on the bed to take away what remains of his shiny armor. He doesn’t fight him, nor follows all his movements waiting for a sudden attack. Nelo closes his eyes, completely defenseless and at the mercy of his enemy, and waits.

Each kiss on his sensitive skin is a deep shiver, and his voice breaks in so embarrassing sounds that Nelo is tempted to push Dante away, if only it didn’t feel so good having his mouth tickling him. Nelo’s body has been unused to any kind of touch for so long that his reactions are immediate and sincere: he squirms and moans, his whole body wriggles unable to cope with those new sensations.

When Dante takes him into his mouth, as he did with him, Nelo feels too good and he doesn’t know how to stop the tide which grows inside him and dies in an ecstatic instant. He is exhausted as if he had just battled, but also relieved and rested. But his skin still tingles, and the suffocating warmth inside his body has not been extinguished; a little spark is keeping him from giving in to sleep.

Dante licks his lips, and the spark is there, flickering in arousal. He leans down on the bed, his legs spread, and the spark grows in a scorching fire. Nelo sits down; he is on alert like a savage beast who is aiming at his prey – his beautiful, tempting prey. Dante has the hand covered in Nelo’s semen, and his fingers slowly disappear inside his ass. First the index, then the middle finger, and Nelo discovers that there is another impulse besides stabbing the sword inside the flesh of your enemy. He cannot name it, he doesn’t remember, but that impulse is almost making him drool like a low-level demon in front of a human: the scorching fire inside him has turned into an inferno.

Nelo is tempted to jump on Dante, bite him and taste his blood while he ruts against his warm body. He almost does when Dante grabs his wrist, but still waits, because there is something deep inside that still has a little control over his inner beast, something put to sleep so many years ago that it has become almost forgotten. _Soul_ , some foolish humans would call it.

His soul stops him from pinning Dante down, and some of his reason reminds him he doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know why Dante touched his body so deep inside, why he grabbed his wrist and is making his fingers do the same. Such a strong body, and yet inside so tender and so warm – he could rip him in a single move, shove his whole hand, his arm and dig his insides from there.

Dante is chuckling, his eyes empty and his voice clear. He is sweating and moaning and driving Nelo crazy with his voice. Dante laughs and laughs, he kisses him on the lips, he mocks him but is sweet. A far-off memory tells him what to do, whispers into his mind that there is only a way to relieve the painful twitches of his dick and taste to the last drop what Dante’s body can give him.

Nelo is above Dante, runs his fingers through his hair and pulls them back to look at his face. Dante tilts his head, he looks a bit confused, but then smiles. And Nelo sees again the house surrounded by trees.

“Brother.” Dante chuckles with a feeble voice.

Nelo opens his mouth. It feels like an eternity since the last time he used his voice to speak. “…brother.” He enters Dante’s body, and they hold onto each other.

They should stay like this forever. That is what both believe.

***

Defeated, defenseless, devoid of a heart. It works if there is only one of them, but the kin of Sparda are twins, and they have reunited on the hand of the Emperor of Hell. Dante and Vergil are naked, reborn as the sons of the Dark Prince. Mundus looks down at them. Nelo, his loyal servant and son, has in his eyes something Mundus believed he had ripped out of him, something which reminds him of the foolish idea of hope. Vergil’s soul is there, lying asleep into his arms; the signs of corruption are showing on his body, that is the birth of another Nelo Angelo from the weak ashes of Sparda’s mingled blood.

If Mundus closed his hand, he could crush them both to death. If Mundus killed only one of them, he would suppress the soul once again. And yet, how sweet is the idea of binding to himself for the eternity both of Sparda’s children… the only sour note is that Sparda isn’t on that world anymore to witness how easy it was to make both of his dear children fall into his hands.

“Nelo Angelo.” Mundus’ voice rumbles in the void of the huge blinding white anteroom of Hell. “He is yours now.”

**Author's Note:**

> Daddy Mundus


End file.
